


Press Your Eyelids Closed

by FanchonMoreau



Category: The Fall (TV)
Genre: Episode Related, Episode Tag, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-30
Updated: 2014-11-30
Packaged: 2018-02-27 13:56:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2695544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FanchonMoreau/pseuds/FanchonMoreau
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Professor Reed Smith arrives home after her thoroughly confounding evening at the Merchant Hotel. Post 2x03.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Press Your Eyelids Closed

**Author's Note:**

> SPOILERS FOR EPISODE 2x03. 
> 
> This is my love letter to Tanya Reed Smith. I mean, I love Stella as much as the next person, but Reed Smith is my favorite character and she needs to be protected at all costs. 
> 
> Trigger warnings for stalking and egregious invasion of personal space and privacy. Much like the show. None of the characters belong to me except Reed's ex-husband and her daughters.

When you return home from the Merchant Hotel, you see a light shining from your upstairs window.

For a moment, you panic. You left that on, didn’t you? You must have. And even if you didn’t, there must be a reasonable explanation. Sometimes the fairy lights from your daughters’ room give the illusion of a single pulsing glow, and that’s easy to mistake for an ordinary bedroom light. Isn’t it?

You squint at the window again, but you still can’t see the lights clearly. Maybe your eyes have slid permanently out of focus. Maybe your daughters’ favourite stories have come true and the fairies have come in the night and replaced you with a changeling. Surely the woman kissing Stella Gibson in a bar couldn’t be the same woman who spent hours untangling ropes of lights so her daughters wouldn’t be too afraid to sleep at night.

And the girls love those lights. Soni made you promise never to turn them off, not even when she and her sister are off staying with their dad several blocks away.  Of course, Soni would never actually _know_ if you turned them off, and perhaps it would be wiser to conserve the electricity. But when you go to the girls’ empty bedroom to actually do it, you find that you just can’t follow through.

Funny how that goes. You kill the ignition on your bike and try to chuckle but your lips are still vibrating and it comes out as a high-pitched flutter of breath. _I was brought up in Croydon._ What the fuck were you thinking?

You don’t bother turning on the lights once you get inside; you just drop your purse near the door, aggressively toe off your high heels and kick them somewhere into the kitchen, and then you scamper to your bedroom like a child.

 _This is ridiculous,_ you tell yourself as your back hits the mattress and your trousers hit the bedroom floor. You’re so aroused and keyed up that you’re touching yourself before you’re really even aware of it. There is no narrative fantasy, just images, sensations: Stella’s soft blond hair brushing your forehead, the curl of her fingers at the back of your neck, and the weight of her hand rubbing your thigh. _If you wanted her this much_ , a voice in the back of your head says, _you should have stayed with her._

Which is exactly what Rose would say if she were here.

You haven’t been at this for very long, but you’re so close to orgasm. You’re circling your clit tightly with two fingers when you realize that _god_ this could have been her tongue, Stella wanted it to be her tongue, and you come hard at the very thought. When it’s over, you’re winded and so wet, but the deep thrum of afterglow beats itself into arousal. And you are going to do this again.

It’s quick this time. All it takes is the memory of Stella’s eyes lowering so she could stare at your lips, your collarbone, your breasts, and then right into your eyes with the same hazy look you imagine she gets when she’s sleepy and sated. And as you come down, it occurs to you that there are still pictures on your good camera of Stella lying on Sarah Kay’s bed. And you realize: there was no reason to call Stella to that crime scene in the first place, no reason to ride to the river to ask her about Olson’s body, no reason at all to go out with her tonight. Your relationship has always been restless and magnetic just beneath the surface, and it was coming from you just as much as her.

You take off your blouse and go downstairs in just your bra and underwear. Your purse and shoes are still just by the door, and you retrieve your phone and check your messages.

There are a few texts from Ian:

_Diana’s wet the bed again. Can you call me?_

_Never mind we’re handling it._

_Okay Soni’s handling it. But I did change the sheets._

_Girls keen on seeing you. Call me tmrw?_

You sigh heavily. Ian’s been doing fine with the girls since he moved out last year, but he can be flustered and hapless in a crisis and you find yourself doing damage control more often than not. It’s not surprising that Soni was the one to calm Diana and get her back to sleep. Soni’s only seven, but you’re pretty sure she has it in her to kill a man should anyone try to harm her little sister. You’ve learned when and how to reign Soni in, but if you’re honest with yourself her protective instinct warms your heart.

You write up your response as you walk back up the stairs.

_Yes I’ll call. Left you a message this morning. Did you get that?_

You wait for about a minute but there’s no response. Maybe he’s gone back to sleep; the texts were from half an hour ago. You try one more time:

_Anyway glad it’s under control. Tell the girls Mummy misses them and can’t wait to see them!!!!!_

When you get back to your bedroom, you toss your phone on the bed and collapse artlessly on your side, right into a small wet spot on the sheet. You’re the only one here but you still feel embarrassed. Not long ago you lived here with your husband and your kids, and now you’re in your old marital bed fantasising about a beautiful woman?

You scroll through the contacts on your phone and find Rose’s number. According to Stella, her phone is unaccounted for but they think the killer disposed of it in some way. They’re still looking; they’re always still looking. And you want to ask Rose for advice so badly, and you want her to smile in her non-judgmental way and say _why don’t you tell me about it_ as she always does.

But she’s gone. And that’s your fault.

There is moisture forming in your eyes, and suddenly the day is weighing heavily on you. Whatever adrenaline you got from your encounter with Stella has drained from your body, and you curl into yourself just a little and drift into an anxious sleep.

* * *

You wake up to the sensation of something vibrating against your face. You blink through your dried mascara and gingerly detach your damp cheek from your iPhone screen: it’s almost three in the morning, and Stella Gibson is ringing you.

She never calls your mobile phone. When she needs something from you at work, she’ll call forensics directly, and when she wants something from you personally, she’ll just text.

You let the phone ring twice more as you stumble over to your dresser and throw one of Ian’s old T-shirts over your head.  The pad of your finger slips as you roll back into bed and accept the call. “Hello?”

“Tanya?”

It’s the first time she’s called you by your first name. Her voice sounds tired and hollow, like she’s spent some time shouting. Or crying.

“Stella? Is everything all right?”

The soft note of unease in Stella’s greeting disappears and professional Stella returns. “I need you to know that you’ll be getting a visit from DCI Eastwood first thing in the morning, probably in a few hours time. At your home.”

If you weren’t fully awake before, you are now. “Is this about Rose?”

“No. About four or five hours ago, there was a break-in in my hotel room. No valuables were taken, but my desktop wallpaper was changed, several pieces of my underwear were rearranged, and a personal journal was… written in. The team needs to interview anyone and everyone who could have witnessed…”

You think she keeps talking, but as soon as you hear that an intruder went through Stella’s underwear you know who it is, and you know that Stella knows too. You get up from your bed and start pacing. Four or five hours ago, you were with Stella then. She was inviting you up to her room around then, so if you had gone…

“All right,” you say, because you don’t want to finish that last thought. “I’ll expect DCI Eastwood. Stella, are you somewhere safe?”

 She doesn’t miss a beat. “Yes. But there’s more.”

“Go ahead,” you prompt, trying to sound like you’re holding it together. You think that’s what Stella needs from you right now.

“The journal… I have a habit of recording my dreams before I start my day. I’ve done it for years. I’m the only one who sees it so I don’t feel the need—“ She stops talking abruptly, and you can almost hear her dismiss her own explanation. “What I’m trying to say is that you’re in it. You’re named. And _he’s read it_.”

Stella dreams about you.

It’s such a heady thought, and you wish you had heard it at any other time. You let yourself imagine, for a moment, what it might have been like being naked in bed with her, chatting about your histories or your fantasies or absolutely nothing at all. And you’re clenching your teeth now because you know that he’s taken that from you and you’re never going to get it back.

You try to steady yourself. “What do I need to do?”

There’s a muffled male voice on Stella’s side of the conversation. It moves closer, then quickly away. Stella sighs, agitated. “We have to test the handwriting to confirm that it’s him. Until then, nothing. DCI Eastwood will let you know where the investigation stands in the morning, and suffice it say, you’ll be hearing from me.”

You bite your lip, hard. You don’t want to ask this next question, but you have to. “Do you have reason to believe I’m in danger?”

There’s a long silence. You’ve placed Stella in a terrible position: if she says yes, she’s obligated to protect you. But you can’t bring yourself to feel bad about it because all you can see right now is Soni and Diana sitting on the floor of their bedroom, and Soni hugging Diana tightly to her and telling her that Mummy will be home soon.

Finally, Stella says: “We can’t yet say.”

“But you did call me in the middle of the night to tell me about it,” you press gently. “And you wouldn’t have done that if it wasn’t a cause for concern.”

The next thing you hear is Stella walking, and her steps are strong enough for you to distinguish each click of her heels. A door shuts. “ACC Burns is pushing back on providing you with protection. He’s trying to argue that you don’t fit the victim type.”

You stop the unconscious pacing you’d been doing since the beginning of the conversation. You know that there is nothing to stop the too-familiar anger that is now consuming you, and the best you can do is breathe through it and try not to shout. Still, it’s difficult. It takes a few seconds for you to be sure you’re going to talk to Stella at a normal volume.

“I’m single, and I’m certainly professional,” you say. “Is it because I’m not white?”

You’ve surprised Stella, and you can tell as much from her silence. It hadn’t occurred to her to think of it in that way. Lucky for her.

“It’s not that,” she says after much too long a pause. “I put the journal into evidence, so he knows that I’m attracted to you. And he’s jealous.”

You know that Stella is attracted to you, she must be if she invited you up to her room, but to hear it out loud is… well, it’s something else. She says it in the most matter-of-fact way, but it still sends a deep, hot shiver through your body.

“I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable…” Stella starts.

“No. No, it’s fine. I’m... attracted to you, too.”

And there it is. You can’t take it back now.

It’s Stella who finally breaks the charged silence. “I’m sorry it’s become public property now. I really am.”

“Me too.”

Stella breathes in, breathes out, and your body relaxes with the sound. “I think maybe you should try and get some sleep.”

She’s right, of course, but you’re alone in this house, and a serial killer knows your name now. You think of the girls at Ian’s flat: Diana with clean, dry sheets and stuffed animals and Soni’s head resting next to her overstuffed bookshelf. They’ll wake up tomorrow morning none the wiser.

“I’m scared, Stella.”

Stella provides no false reassurance, and you expected nothing less from her. “I know,” she says softly. “DCI Eastwood will be there in the morning. He'll tell you everything you need to know.”

“And I’ll talk to you?” you ask.

“Count on it,” she says, and hangs up.

As soon as the call ends, you go to turn on all of the lights in your house. The hallways, the bathrooms, the girls’ room, your office, Ian’s old office, the kitchen, the living room, even the spare closet that you never use. Then you check the lock on the front door, the back door, and you secure every window.

You still don’t feel safe.

You slip into the girls’ bedroom and sit on Soni’s bed. She’s moved a fair amount of her things to her room at Ian’s flat, but her Illustrated Guide to Celtic Folklore is here, as well as all of her intermediate-level reading fantasy series and fairy figurines. It’s comforting to see that the girls are still present, even when they’re not here. The figurines are in piles and circles, just as fairies are in the folk tales, but in Soni’s stories the fairies are always the good guys who protect them and wreak havoc on their enemies.

And they do have enemies. The boy in the playground who told Diana to go back to where she came from, and his friend, who slanted his eyelids and laughed.

You grip Soni’s bedspread to keep your hand from shaking. _What will you tell your daughters, to stay safe?_

Suddenly, you know what you need to do. You pick up all the fairy figurines from the floor and bring them downstairs to the kitchen. There is one that you recognize as a gift from Rose; that one gets a place of prominence at the center of the table. The rest you arrange in a circle, a fairy ring. As if to say: trespassing here is forbidden.

You’re satisfied with your work, but you don’t leave the kitchen. You know there’s little point in going back upstairs and back to sleep. So you sit there at the table, ready for the morning, ready for DCI Eastwood, ready for whoever else might be coming for you.

 

 


End file.
